


loving your work

by Blinkingkills (alexwhitewell), plingo_kat



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Digital Art, Drabbles, M/M, NSFW Art, WHOOPS MY ORIGINAL TITLE HAS ALREADY BEEN DONE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-17 11:52:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4665573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexwhitewell/pseuds/Blinkingkills, https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortic, artfic, and prompts! Feel free to drop by and suggest something.</p><p>NSFW, particularly as there are some, ah, compromising images embedded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the jerk affair

“Come on, Peril.” Napoleon sticks his tongue out like a boy on a playground. “Put your back into it.”

“Be.” Illya grunts, hitching his hips forward. “Quiet.”

Napoleons laughs, the flutter of his muscles squeezing painfully good around his cock. “Make me.”

Illya grits his teeth. “I will.”

Napoleon grins and _clenches_ , which makes Illya shove forward and Napoleon grunt, so he doesn’t really count it as a loss.

“Ah,” Napoleon breathes. “Yes, like that.”

Illya grins, just a slice of teeth, and thrusts forward again, and again, until Napoelon’s hair falls in an unsteady curl onto his forehead and his mouth goes slack and gasping.

“Yes,” Illya mutters. “Take it, красавчик, you were made for this, for me.”

Napoleon whines before he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Now who’s talking?” He sounds winded, voice hoarse, but still more in control than Illya wants.

“So make me shut up,” Illya suggests in a mockery of Napoleon’s previous challenge. He punctuates this with a swivel of his hips; Napoleon throws his head back, the muscles under his skin shifting as he writhes. It’s good – it’s so good, seeing Napoleon like this, undone, his conman’s charm unraveled to show the raw, hungry man beneath. Illya bites down hard on his lower lip, using the pain to ground himself. He can’t come, not yet, not until Napoleon does.

 

Art by [blinkingkills](http://blinkstep.com/post/127603714010/come-on-peril-is-that-the-best-you-can-do) @ tumblr


	2. the getup affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> save a horse; ride a cowboy

“What,” Illya says, “Is that.”

“Oh, this old thing?” Napoleon tugs at the hem of his shirt, briefly limning the planes of muscle on his chest. “I thought you might like it.”

“I do not,” Illya says. “Take it off.”

Napoleon’s grin widens. “I’d be happy to.”

“Wait,” Illya says. “Actually, no.”

“Comrade,” Napoleon tsks. “I never knew you to be indecisive.”

“Shut up,” Illya says. He crosses his arms over his chest. “I just… do not want you to be cold.”

Napoleon laughs, delighted. “You’re adorable, you know that? Cold. We’re in Los Angeles.”

Illya glowers at the empty space next to Napoleon’s ear. “You have done this before. And then we had to run away.”

“That wasn’t my fault, how was I supposed to know?”

“There were signs.”

“Well I’d never seen the man before.”

“I am not going to talk about this with you.” The last time they had this discussion, it somehow derailed into whether or not Napoleon could be a movie star. Illya had been arguing _for_ it, which just showed how out of control the conversation has gotten.

“Then what do you want to talk about?” Napoleon cocks his hip out and licks his lips, a hand in his pocket pulling his pants tight across his waist. 

Illya narrows his eyes. The thing is, Napoleon always ends up getting his way – and the more Illya protests, the more smug he is when it happens. So:

“Nothing,” Illya says, takes a long step forward, fists his hand in the stupid shirt Napoleon is wearing, and kisses him.

“Mmf,” Napoleon says, always wanting the last word, but Illya keeps them pressed together and in the end Napoleon acquiesces, opening with a soft noise for Illya’s mouth.

Illya takes the opportunity to grasp the collar in his other hand and _pull_. There’s a crackling _zzzt_ noise as the cloth gives.

Napoleon jerks back. “Hey!”

Illya smirks. “What are you going to do about it? _Cowboy?”_

“Oh, it’s on.” Napoleon narrows his eyes.


	3. the accent affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [bamboocounting's prompt](http://pushthequorumbutton.tumblr.com/post/128149612981/hullo-how-r-u-would-you-like-pictures-of-small): illya has to maintain a hideous american accent for shenanigans, or at least until solo and gaby finally team up to get him to /drop/ it by any means necessary.

“This is _fine_ ,” Illya says, horribly. Napoleon tries to hide his wince and fails; Gaby snorts aloud.

“You sound like a sick person,” Gaby says, and imitates Illya’s pseudo-American accent in a nasal whine. _“This is fine.”_

Illya glowers. Napoleon raises his hands and steps between them. “Now now, children.”

This time Gaby glowers at him. Napoleon winces under the combined might of their animosity.

“Illya, much as I hate to admit it, needs to go undercover as an American.” Illya nods, drawing himself up to his – impressive – full height. Napoleon continues, “But, Peril, look. You’ve got to face the facts. You can’t pull off an American accent. What you’ve got to do is sound _European_. You were schooled abroad. You picked up,” and here Napoleon changes flawlessly into high class British diction, “a certain something in the years you spent in the United Kingdom.”

Illya crosses his arms. “Then how do they know I am American?”

“You _tell_ them, Peril. Honestly. Use your words.”

“He should not be British,” Gaby says. She nods, firmly. “He should be German.”

“I am _American_ ,” Illya insists.

“Pretending to be European.”

“German!”

“Russian,” Illya says, and it takes Gaby a second to realize he’s winding them up on purpose. Napoleon doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Why German?”

“The guttural sounds are more similar,” Gaby says.

“I could be deaf,” Illya suggests. “Or mute.”

Napoleon diverts. “Do you know sign language?”

Illya shakes his head.

“Then that doesn’t—oh.” Napoleon gives them his disapproving eyebrows. “You’re playing games with me. That’s not nice, Peril. And Gaby.”

“We are not nice,” Gaby says.

“We are American,” Illya says.


	4. the negotiation affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [callay](http://calllay.tumblr.com/), who requested: Please write Man from UNCLE OT3! Maybe it's predictable, but I really just want Illya (and also Napoleon??) being really nervous doing it with a guy and Gaby being a boss and helping them discover it.

“I have experience in this area,” Illya snarls, fists clenching. He manages to loom even as he paces from the bed to the door, fetching up in front of Napoleon to glare down at him.

“Well, so do I,” Napoleon says. “Mostly on the receiving end, and guess what? I don’t enjoy it. So it’s not happening.”

“I refuse to be—“ Illya cuts himself off with a glance at Gaby. She crosses her arms.

“Refuse to what?” she says sweetly. Illya winces. “To be the _woman_?”

She watches Napoleon smirk out of the corner of her eye, viciously satisfied. That won’t do at all – she wants them to get along, not savage each other to pieces. Although, she thinks, perhaps a little bit of savagery is inevitable.

“Have you ever tried it?” she continues. At Illya’s averted eyes and minute head shake, she raises her eyebrows. “So how do you know you will not like it?”

Napoleon opens his mouth to speak; she points at him. “You, be quiet.”

He shuts his mouth.

“I do not have supplies,” she says, contemplative. “Otherwise I could do it, maybe.”

Illya’s brow furrows. Napoleon coughs. “I,” he says, a little choked. “I could possibly point you to a store which provides… that sort of thing. If you like.”

“What?” Illya says, before understanding dawns over his face. It’s immediately followed by a flush. “Oh.”

He’s so shocked by her experience, it is adorable. Did he imagine she was a trembling virgin? When she was the one to suggest their arrangement? Then again, Illya is Russian, and KGB: he has some strange preconceptions. Napoleon does too, for all that he is a self-confessed criminal hedonist, but his assumptions tend not to affect his contemplations of personal attraction, merely motivation.

“In any case, no,” Gaby says. “Maybe later. But this is not a,” she edits out _problem_ from her vocabulary, “situation that will stop coming up. If we are to be partners, you two will need to work this out.”

“I’m not letting him fuck me,” Napoleon says with typical American crassness. “At least, not this first time.”

“ _I_ am not letting him fuck _me_ ,” Illya says. She wonders if it’s a spinal reflex for him to refute anything Napoleon puts forward. “Ever.”

“Maybe,” Gaby suggests mildly, “there does not have to be… actual fucking? Hands exist for a reason, no?”

Illya flushes an even deeper red. Napoleon grins. “Fine by me,” he says.

“I have no objection,” Illya says, stiff. Somewhere in her mind she giggles at the pun.

“Good,” she says. Napoleon and Illya look at each other, then at her, then at each other again. She sighs. “Well? Are you going to start?”

“Okay,” Napoleon says. He reaches for the bottle of whiskey on the dresser, pours himself a shot and downs it. “Come here, Peril. You want a drink first?”

“No.” Illya glowers, but he steps forward willingly enough. The two of them hover awkwardly around each other before Illya visibly loses his patience. “Stupid,” he mutters, grabs Napoleon’s tie, and kisses him.

“Mm!” Napoleon says, eyes wide. His hands flail hilariously for a moment behind Illya’s back before they grip at his upper arms.

Gaby breathes out silently in relief. This can work, she thinks, truly confident for the first time. Illya has a large hand pressed to Napoleon’s jaw, cradling his face; his thumb rests gently on Napoleon’s chin. Napoleon’s hands have drifted over to Illya’s back and waist. His face is tilted his up, his eyes gone half-lidded. Their mouths move together slowly, wetly, sweetly. Until Napoleon tilts forward and _nips_ at Illya’s lip, laughing as he jerks back with a hiss. 

“You,” Illya growls, voice low and already rumbling, the voice he only uses in the bedroom. “Are a—“

Gaby steps around and echoes Illya’s maneuver, grasping Napoleon’s tie and pulling him down for a kiss. Napoleon kisses exactly as she thought he would: sensual and skilled, flirtatious until she opens her mouth, demanding, and then deep and filthy. By the time she pulls away Illya’s hand has drifted to her hip and he is pressed warmly up against her back, the other hand brushing her hair behind her ear and then running through Napoleon’s coif, mussing the carefully styled strands. His pupils have dilated.

“There,” she says, only slightly breathless. “Don’t fight. You have better things to do.”

“Make love, not war?” Napoleon inquires, all innocence. He is undoing his cufflinks.

“Americans,” Illya rumbles from behind her.

Napoleon moves on to his buttons. “Careful there, Peril. Don’t want to fall behind in the, ah, arms race. Or other body parts, as it were.”

“Please,” Illya says. “Stop _talking_.”

“Both of you,” Gaby says. “Put your mouths to better use. On each other,” she adds warningly. “This is to work out your tension, remember? Not mine.”

“I am going to win.” Illya says.

“Excuse me?” Napoleon shrugs out of his shirt. “If anybody is going to be winning here, it’ll be me. Seeing as I have more experience.”

“Pah,” Illya says. “Bring it on, Cowboy.”

Gaby smiles. Playfulness, not savaging. Progress.


	5. the white collar affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two snippets this time! Both modern AUs, vaguely influenced by White Collar.

[Art by **blinkingkills**](http://blinkstep.com/post/128932228575/just-a-quick-thing) @ tumblr

i.

“Please stop,” Illya says, one corner of his mouth curling up in an uncertain smile. “Don’t make us one of _those_ people.”

“Too late, Peril.” Napoleon flashes the victory sign and clicks the volume button on the side of his iPhone to take the selfie. He looks great; Illya looks uncomfortable. Par for the course.

“Hashtag team thief,” he reads out as he types.

“What?” Illya makes a grab for the phone. Napoleon ducks and hunches over it protectively, laughing. “You are _telling_ people what we do for a living?”

“It’s for a TV show, relax.” Napoleon grasps him by the wrist and brings his hand up for a quick kiss over his knuckles. “Apparently I look a lot like Neal Caffrey.”

“I don’t know who that is.” Aww. His mouth is doing the little grumpy thing that it does. Not a pout, Illya insists.

“A fictional thief with a great taste in hats.”

Illya frowns. “That describes me.”

“ _Excuse_ me,” Napoleon says. “I have excellent taste in hats.”

“You wear fedoras,” Illya says.

“Exactly!”

“No,” Illya says.

ii.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Gaby says, dubious. There’s an echo in the background, the distant sound of people talking. Napoleon thinks for the millionth time that he hates having conversations over cell phones. “There’s an audit due next week, you know.”

“Exactly,” Napoleon says. “In the scramble to get everything in order, nobody will notice a missing etching or two.”

“And will they notice an employee mysteriously quitting three days before the audit turns up six hundred thousand dollars in missing artwork?”

“So I’ll stay through the audit,” Napoleon says.

Gaby makes a strangled noise and hangs up. Napoleon grins.

As a lowly librarian’s assistant, Napoleon sees little of the Crysalis auditing team. This suits him just fine; he’s here for another two weeks, and then he’s going to have a death in the family which will leave him conveniently needing to quit and move away to Los Angeles. He fiddles with the barcode scanner on his desk: is it worth it to solder back the loose wire at the base or should he just trash it and requisition a new one?

“Excuse me,” says a tall and – Napoleon blinks hard, just once – completely _gorgeous_  man in a tragically plain suit with sleeves just a tad too short. Amazing shoulders, though, he thinks, that could be shown off well with just a little bit of tailoring.

“Yes?” Napoleon’s mouth says on automatic. It takes another second for his brain to come completely back online, and he meets the man’s eyes with his shyest, most unassuming smile. Fuck, the man is pretty. Blue eyes, straight nose, lush mouth. Frat boy hair, but you can’t have everything. “Can I help you?”

“Please,” Gorgeous says. “I’m Illya Kuryakin with Crysalis Management. Here for the audit.”

“Oh,” Napoleon says. He fidgets with the broken scanner, tilting it back and forth before putting it down on the table. “Um, what do you need?”

“Well,” Illya says. He grins, wide and boyish, a flash of canine peeking out over his lower lip. “Honestly I was wondering if there were any good coffee places nearby. I’m from New York office, so I don’t really know my way around.”

“Are you a Starbucks man?”

Illya makes a face.

“Never mind,” Napoleon laughs. “Neither am I. We have the Maproom Cafe if you want to stay on site, it’s pretty good. I’m not just saying that because I work here either! And there’s a couple if you head west on Newbury if you don’t mind a bit of a walk. Wired Puppy makes a great French Roast.”

“I guess I’ll go there, then,” Illya says. “Thanks! I’ll, um, see you around?”

 _Yes_ , Napoleon thinks, instinctively, greedily. He echoes it vocally with a little wave goodbye.

[So I may have a little problem], he texts Gaby.

[WHAT.]

[6ft+ of gorgeousness], Napoleon types back. [I want him]

[omg], Gaby says. [you have no self control AT ALL]

[fine], she says. [just be careful]

[He’s an auditor], Napoleon tells her.

[WTF r u stupid?????]

[I’ll take a picture and you’ll understand!]

[I TOLD YOU THIS WAS A STUPID PLAN]

[I have 3 weeks left. 4 days of audit. It’ll be fine.]

[HE’LL REMEMBER U]

[It’s dating, not marriage. Once I’m gone he won’t be able to find me.]

[u r making such a huge mistake. i’m going to say i told u so when ur in jail.]

[Love you too <3]

 

OKAY BUT THE THING IS (AND I JUST REALIZED THIS MAY NOT HAVE BEEN CLEAR, AT ALL) IS THAT ILLYA IS TOTALLY THE SHARPEST AUDITOR THERE and they discover the missing artworks on the FIRST DAY and he requests all the logs and goes through all the security like some sort of super-investigator (turns out!! he used to be in the security business!! he’s a fucking retired military man!!!!) and napoleon is like ‘SHIT’ but illya is also like, timing his breaks around napoleon’s lunch hour so he can shyly ask him for coffee and then completely demolish him at chess (one of the bistros is charming and has chess tables like in public parks, shh there aren’t any restaurants like that around the BPL but i can make things up if i want to) and on the third day illya asks him out to lunch and they end up having sex in a hotel room AND THEN THAT AFTERNOON NAPOLEON IS CALLED INTO THE AUDIT WAR ROOM and. shenanigans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Link](http://pushthequorumbutton.tumblr.com/post/129199574321/blinkingkills-just-a-quick-thing-please) to the first post on tumblr.
> 
> [Link](http://pushthequorumbutton.tumblr.com/post/129330545726/can-you-please-write-a-illyasolo-fic-it-should) to the second post, in response to the prompt: _can you please write a illya/solo fic , it should be something fluffy and of course must have a happy ending.how about a modern au napoleon is a librarian and illya is a customer who likes solo but doesn't have the courage to tell him. instead he ends up glaring at him_

**Author's Note:**

> plingokat @ twitter


End file.
